The Time Machine in The Search for Jesus - Vintage Wells - Pt 8

 

The Time Machine settled on the stony ridge outside Damascus with a low, resonant hum—less a mechanical noise than a kind of sigh, as though the great brass vessel itself sensed the gravity of what Filby was about to confront. The sun was sinking, staining the desert sky with red and gold. The road stretched before them like a scar across the land.

And along that road hung bodies.

The Road to Damascus

The Time Team walked in silence. Crucified men lined the roadside—some long dead, some barely alive, their breaths shallow, their eyes glazed. The smell of blood and rot clung to the air. Even the scholars, hardened by study of ancient brutality, looked shaken.

Filby stopped before one of the crosses. The man upon it was still conscious, his lips cracked, his chest rising in painful jerks.

Filby whispered, “Could… could a man be taken down the same day he was crucified?”

The Babylonian expert answered quietly, “Only if someone bribed the authorities. Or if the sentence was incomplete. But normally… no. They hang until death.”

The Psychologist added, “And death can take days.”

Filby stared at the suffering man, his faith trembling. “Then the Gospel accounts… the timing…”

The Time Traveler placed a hand on his shoulder. “Filby. We must move.”

They walked on, the crosses diminishing behind them like grim punctuation marks on the road to revelation.

Damascus: A City of Sects

Damascus was alive with noise—vendors shouting, camels braying, the smell of spices and smoke drifting through the narrow streets. But beneath the everyday bustle, the Time Team sensed something else: a spiritual ferment, a city boiling with competing visions.

They found proto‑Christian groups easily. Too easily.

One group claimed Christ was a mortal prophet. Another insisted He was a demi‑god. A third proclaimed Him fully divine, never flesh. A fourth said He had appeared only in visions. A fifth believed He was an angelic messenger who descended briefly and left no earthly trace.

Filby listened to each sect with growing horror.

“No Apostles?” he asked repeatedly.

Blank stares. Shrugs. Confusion.

“No one here has met an Apostle,” said one elder. “We hear stories. But no one knows anyone who knew one.”

“No one knows anyone who knew anyone who knew one,” added another.

Filby’s hands shook. “But… Paul… John… surely someone…”

The elder shook his head. “We have heard of Paul. A visionary. A man who saw the Lord in the sky. But he never came here.”

Filby felt the ground tilt beneath him.

Meeting Apollonius

They found Apollonius in a shaded courtyard near the philosophers’ quarter—a tall, serene man with piercing eyes and a calm that seemed to radiate outward. He was surrounded by students, some scribbling notes, others listening with rapt attention.

The Time Traveler approached with scholarly courtesy.

“Master Apollonius,” he said, “we are travelers seeking wisdom.”

Apollonius inclined his head. “Wisdom is not a destination. It is a discipline. Sit.”

They sat.

Apollonius spoke of philosophy, of virtue, of the harmony of the cosmos. He spoke of healing through reason, of calming storms through understanding, of miracles achieved through knowledge rather than divine intervention.

Filby asked, “Some say you perform wonders.”

Apollonius smiled faintly. “Wonders? No. Only the application of truth. If a man understands nature, he may appear to command it.”

The Psychologist murmured, “A rational magician.”

Filby leaned forward. “Have you heard of a teacher from Nazareth? A healer? A man called Jesus?”

Apollonius frowned. “Nazareth? A small place. Produces nothing of note.”

Filby’s voice trembled. “No teacher? No preacher?”

Apollonius shook his head. “None.”

Filby swallowed. “What of Christ?”

Apollonius’s expression shifted. “Ah. Christos. A title, not a name. Many claim it. Some say He is a man. Some say He is a spirit. Some say He is a god. They argue among themselves. They form sects. They split. They reunite. They split again.”

Filby whispered, “But no one knows Him?”

Apollonius shook his head. “No one knows anyone who knows Him.”

The Psychologist exhaled sharply. “Another celestial Christ. Another visionary movement. No historical teacher.”

Apollonius continued, “If such a man lived, he left no mark. No student. No witness. Only visions.”

Filby’s voice cracked. “But the Gospels—”

Apollonius raised a hand. “Stories grow. Myths grow. Truth does not always grow with them.”

The Authorities Close In

A Roman patrol passed the courtyard, eyeing the Time Team with suspicion. Their clothing was correct, but their manner—watchful, analytical, too calm—was not.

One guard muttered, “Foreigners. From that island off Gaul, perhaps. Strange folk.”

Another said, “They watch too much. Like spies.”

Apollonius leaned close to the Time Traveler. “You must leave. Damascus is not safe for men who ask too many questions.”

Filby whispered, “But I still have no answers.”

Apollonius placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then seek them elsewhere. But be warned: the truth you seek may not exist.”

Departure

The Time Team retreated to the ridge where the machine waited. Filby stood staring at the city, his faith trembling like a candle in wind.

“No Jesus,” he whispered. “No Apostles. No witnesses. Only visions. Only sects. Only stories.”

The Psychologist said softly, “History is not what we thought.”

The Time Traveler looked toward the horizon. “We must decide where to go next.”

Filby turned to him, eyes hollow. “I fear the answer is nowhere.”

The Time Traveler placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then we return home.”

And the machine hummed again.